Fallen Leaves
by LifeOnMarsGirl
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a self proclaimed sociopath, but what exactly made him that way, a study of Sherlock's life and how his own and others actions have affected him. What exactly did John Watson awaken in Sherlock and what will be the consequences?
1. Chapter 1

The leaves fell onto the cold autumn ground in the city. Lights flashed as fast motorcars whizzed by, their fumes leaving a not unpleasant, sweet, acrid scent in the air. Sherlock Holmes skipped down the paved streets to his primary school, leaves floated like small graceful birds and the bleak sun glimmered behind opaque clouds. Already the signs of winter had begun to emerge as the sidewalk began to glaze over with frost.

Sherlock's shoes, the black ones with the buckles, were incredibly difficult to walk in, especially with the ice. He slipped and skidded on the glacial surface, his coat receiving the full blast of the battering wind. Already at this time of day the daylight was fading, by home time it would be almost dark, but Sherlock wasn't worried, he knew his mummy would come for him, ready to pick him up and envelop him in her sweet lavender scent.

Sherlock shook his head; he couldn't believe that break was almost finished. Suddenly the school gates were upon him, strong and imposing.

All day Sherlock watched as the daylight dimmed and the world was plunged into darkness once more.

What felt like hours later, they were released, hoards of children flew out through the gates, barging and self confident. Sherlock hung back, making his way reservedly out of the doors; as soon as he had gone they were shut with a definitive thud.

With no warmth outside, Sherlock waited, shadows flitted past him and the stars shone in the sky like iridescent diamonds. Still Sherlock waited, his foot clunking against the wall where he sat. His Mummy did not come. The moonlight shimmered like cats eyes and the trees whispered mournfully in the breeze. Still Mummy did not come. Teacher was gone by now, exited at the front office into her warm car, safe and secure in the knowledge of home. Still Mummy did not come. The first flake of snow fell from the sky, floating down to earth to land on Sherlock's shoulder. Still Mummy did not come.

Finally, Sherlock couldn't wait any longer, a fine layer of champagne powder like snow covered the ground, he had decided he would walk home alone, small fluffs of frost rose from the ground as he jumped down from his wall. His feet made tiny imprints on the pavement as he walked and the wind whistled through his coat sending ripples of fear through him.

Sherlock didn't realise how cold it was till he was almost completely enveloped by snow, more and more crisp flakes floated down from the now stormy sky. Sherlock was remarkably clever for his age, but by now he had begun to get lost in the thick fog surrounding him, and he had very little idea of where he was.

The cold was beginning to hurt, biting at his pale skin like invisible dragons, weaving and winding around him, ensnaring him in their snow fire embrace. Suddenly Sherlock stopped, the wind whipping his coat around his small legs, squinting he saw a figure at the end of the street, walking rather quickly, obviously in some kind of panic then. As the mysterious shape grew closer Sherlock began to pick out some more features, tall, but not remarkably so, dressed well, but flustered…in all honesty he looked a bit like…"Myc?"

Mycroft Holmes was devastated, not that anyone could tell from his face, his gaze was steely and determined, the cold mask he had procured only slipping when he saw the small figure at the bottom of the road, so he had tried to get home. For a second Mycroft felt genuine concern for his brothers safety, for all his protestations, he really did care for his little brother, and he also knew that someday he may be a great asset.

"Sherlock, why are you walking alone, why didn't you wait for me?"

"Mummy didn't come." Sherlock pouted sadly, seeking at least some comfort from his statuesque sibling. Willing his eyes to at least look at him Sherlock tried to stare Mycroft down, a battle which at this stage was an easy win for his older brother.

Lacking the comfort he needed Sherlock shuffled his feet idly in the fluff like substance covering the ground, the snow escaping into his shoes and hurting his already cold feet.

"Sherlock, I don't know how to tell you this..." Mycroft paused, clearly internally debating whether to lie or not. "Mummy was involved in an accident this afternoon, I'm afraid she didn't make it."

Sherlock Holmes looked up, for the first time noticing that his brothers dishevelled appearance had little to do with his own disappearance, or even the death of his mother, no, Mycroft Holmes' schedule had been interrupted; and that is what must have been causing this uncharacteristic change in his behaviour. Coldly Sherlock turned away.

"Ok Mycroft. I understand. Shall we go home now?"

Mycroft Holmes for the first time in his busy life didn't understand. How could his sweet little brother be so uncaring? He supposed it was a shock, after all Sherlock was only seven, he probably didn't really understand what was happening. Mycroft started to speak, only to find his little brother far in front of him, cold, unfeeling determination on his face. Slowly he shook his head, sighing at how much his brother had to learn. Despondently he trudged behind him brushing off the snowy powder which had gathered on his shoulder.

Sherlock strode ahead, not waiting for his brother to catch up; an icy coldness had swept over his whole being causing him to shudder at his own insensitivity. Internally Sherlock Holmes was a wreck, his Mind Palace still in its infantile stages. But externally he was an indifferent mask of somewhere between rage and nothing, the blank expression giving nothing away. After all, he had learned from the best.

Sherlock looked round once at his brother, and felt nothing but a cool breeze drift over him, and so began the glaciations of his once warm and beating heart.


	2. Chapter 2

"You promised." Sherlock stood once again at the gates of the school yard, the newly fallen leaves scattering around him.

"Sherlock, you have to understand, I have other things to tend to than the needs of my incapable little brother! You know your way home, can you not just walk yourself." Mycroft Holmes exhaled, a small vapid cloud of fog escaping his chapped lips.

Sherlock just stared, amazed at how little emotion he now felt for his once idolised big brother. His face betrayed nothing, gazing at Mycroft coolly with eyes narrowed.

"None of the other children have to walk home alone."

Mycroft Holmes sighed, "You are not like the other children Sherlock, you are different, and you don't need help."

Mycroft was tired of his impetuous little brother, since mother had passed two years ago he had cared for Sherlock the best he could, providing him with the attention their father failed to give them. But Mycroft was not Sherlock, he had had more practice at burying his emotions, and as such often came across uncaring and cold, almost ice like. He thought his little brother understood that?

Sherlock was not upset by Mycroft's behaviour, he had come to realise that his once caring brother was more like their unfeeling brother than he had first believed. Slowly he summoned the courage to speak again, this time lacking the emotion that once shone through his small yet intelligent features.

"It's quite okay Mycroft, I believe I would be better walking on my own any way."

And so Sherlock left, leaving his elder with a somewhat empty feeling inside, one which would persist throughout his adolescence. Somewhere within Mycroft's wealth of buried emotions was a thought which he reserved for this exact moment: sadness. It was the first time that Mycroft made a mistake regarding his brother's future, but it wouldn't be the last.

As Sherlock walked away he felt his head pounding, he knew that his brother was watching him, much as a hawk would watch it's prey, analyzing, scouring. Sherlock hung his head low to avoid the spurious gazes of passerby's, what was a young child doing out alone at this time of night, where were his parents? Sherlock looked up at the brown leaves which had begun to fall from the trees, wrapping his powder blue scarf around his neck he watched the leaves fall, landing gracefully among the scintillating cracks of the pavement. Slowly he approached a rather curled dead leaf, crushing it with his polished shoe and leaving only tiny fragments behind.

Mycroft observed his little brother, taking note of how the world spun if you concentrated too hard, he saw the leaves fall around the small innocent form, hiding him behind their beauty. It hurt to see his once vibrant brother crushed, much like the leaves under his very feet. But he could not afford this sentimentality in his head, spiralling him down into a pit of despair, where his brother could not even reach him, and so Mycroft Holmes once again put up his barriers of ice, freezing in his already cold heart and allowing him to focus on what was more important. Taking one last long lingering look at his brother he narrowed his eyes, stabbing a leaf on the sharp point of his umbrella; he turned on his heel and headed the opposite direction. Leaving nothing but the scent of overpowering aftershave, arrogant, powerful, broken.

Sherlock opened the door to the large stately house, once filled with warmth and happiness, now only holding the smell of wilting flowers and progressive decay. Completely avoiding the landing and his fathers study Sherlock headed to his room upstairs, marked by signs with elegant font that his mother had produced for them, were the door hangers on two identical doors. One had been soiled by some type of chemical, green and lurid spreading over the S, the other was tidy and non emotive, lacking any sort of character or feeling, Sherlock entered his own door. Completely ignoring the other sign, not even dignifying it with a glance. With a sudden burst of anger Sherlock slammed his own door, causing the sign beside it to fall onto the wooden floor, a definitive crack splicing right through Mycroft's name and destroying the sign for good.

Two hours later and the elder Holmes brother trudged wearily up the staircase, passing his fathers study he took note of the footprints at the door, so no stopping to talk to father tonight then. Mycroft surveyed the passageway only pausing to stoop and pick up his door hanger, lying ruined right outside his door. He like his brother, was no fool and could surmise exactly what happened. Something passed through Mycroft as he stared at the broken sign, an almost apathetic feeling of sadness, and something else, regret, he wasn't sure. It swelled within him, prompting his next uncharacteristic actions, calling for his brother he banged on the door:

"Sherlock, come out of there, we need to speak, I believe you have damaged some of my property!"

Receiving no reply he banged harder on the oak door, causing it to waver unfavourably. The door knob made no show of movement, and blissful silence continued behind its impenetrable walls.

"Well you're going to be very lonely in there all alone now aren't you?" Mycroft sneered, almost certain this sarcastic derogatory comment would inspire some reaction from his small counterpart.

The only reaction was one sentence which made Mycroft's blood run cold. One small line of words, condemning everything they had ever shared together, and seemingly sealing both their unfortunate fates.

"Alone is what protects me." Sherlock's answer was small, but aware, knowing, believing, strong and unwavering.

And with that Mycroft Holmes knew that their brotherly relationship was over, ruined by his own lack of sentimentality. From then on he vowed to never hurt his brother intentionally again. Caring was not an advantage, and certainly not when it came to his own frozen soul.HHH


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a further 3 years since Sherlock and his brothers relationship had finally come to a very definite end. Gone were the days of happy smiles and pirate games, replaced with hostile comments and cutting deductions. Mycroft Holmes had never claimed to have been happy with this rather melancholy arrangement, but did have to admit that it saved him the bother of interacting with his brother at school.

Sherlock was in first year, when everyone scrutinised your intelligence and usefulness, ready to pounce and form fake disparaging "friendships" no one was yet to approach the strange 12 year old with the knowing eyes and hardened facial expressions. Very little people knew of the relationship between Sherlock and his elder brother, and both seemed to prefer it that way. With Mycroft being in sixth year Sherlock felt he had little reason to interact with him.

And so their strange silent vigil continued, each night the sorrowful sound of the violin could be heard echoing out into the isolated hallway and down past the once lively living area. No one dared to stop the lilting sounds, as the young boy playing slowly lost himself expressing the emotions he had once shared with a caring brother.

It was approaching winter of the first year of academy for Sherlock; he had no friends in this place and despised those who clung to each other like limpets, unneeded appendages, hanging off from the coat tails of those who once seemed so promising.

So it was this observation that casually began the first day of hell for Sherlock Holmes. Not one for subtly saying anything he deduced all he could about his fellow classmates, trying to prove once and for all that he was as good as them. One word echoed against all the names he received that day. Freak.

As the chanting grew louder Mycroft struggled to concentrate on his physics papers, looking around to try to find the source of the disturbance, he spotted the bright blue scarf continually sported by his younger sibling. Suppressing a sigh of irritation he opened the door of the classroom he had been studying to come face to face with an upset Sherlock.

"For god's sake, what now?" he enquired, already beginning his speech on what to tell his brother.

"They don't like me Mycroft, they think I'm a freak." Tears threatened to overwhelm the young boy and he hung his head low.

Just as Mycroft opened his mouth one of the other seniors in the classroom came over, calling Mycroft by "Mike." Mycroft Holmes had a decision to make, care for his little brother and sort out this ridiculous problem, or uphold his own untarnished image. The decision he made would affect him for the rest of his life.

"God Sherlock, no one likes you, because you ARE a freak."

And with those words everything that remained sacred in the brothers relationship crumbled, all the good memories and happiness erased by a single stupid sentence. Sherlock Holmes knew then that it was the end, no more caring, no more love, no more happiness, he had expected it, waited for it, courted it with his own sense of morbid fixation.

Mycroft Holmes had sealed his brother and his own fates that day, one single act that dominated their every waking moment from that day forward. The single utterance that had spewed forth from his proffered lips had defied any feelings from ever creeping their way into Sherlock's heart again.

Sherlock raised his head, convinced now that he truly was better off on his own, looked Mycroft Holmes directly in his steely grey eyes and viciously uttered one final phrase, the hate filled words of someone who no longer desires someone's appreciation, a string of words destined to make Mycroft Holmes' world come undone.

"Well thank you Mycroft that has just indefinitely confirmed my suspicion that you truly understand me, after all, one freak is always destined to create another."

Sherlock Holmes walked away from his dumbfounded brother, an odd sense of victory hanging over him, overshadowed by the self inflicted feeling of loathing creeping up, sucking out his soul, and shrivelling his already rotting heart.

Mycroft Holmes waited until his brother had turned on his heel and left, seeing the flabbergasted faces of his classmates that Sherlock was his brother, he could tell by their faces that they didn't believe him, to be honest he didn't believe it himself sometimes, and yet here they were, two ships go awry on the vast ocean of loneliness, destined to crash on the rocks or fatally collide. Mycroft prayed it would not be the latter, for he had his reasons. He smirked; after all, you can't bruise someone's heart if they don't have one.HHH


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes was not well liked throughout his academic years, by his 5th year of Secondary school he had all but alienated all his fellow students, and carried around a kind of arrogance which made him seem almost completely robotic. No one had really tried to get to know him and as such he kept very much to himself, standing idly behind the old trees in the schoolyard, frightening potential friends off with his deductions. However, all that changed when he met a boy by the name of Victor.

Although Victor or Vic to his friends was a rather instant hit with the other kids, he seemed to have an air of aloof loneliness which instantly sparked an interest with Sherlock. One day Sherlock was alone, and then suddenly he was not. The other children still eyed him surreptitiously and he still received threats on an almost daily basis, but it was made more bearable by the other boy's presence. Vic had spotted Sherlock on his first day at the godforsaken place his parents called a school, forced to attend everyday he was rather quickly influenced to stay away from the kid they called "The Freak."HHH

Vic, having rather the nose for trouble, deliberately ignored their snide comments and chose to occupy himself with the rather interesting loner. The other kids worried about the young man's sanity; who in their right mind would willingly choose to be friends with a Holmes? Alright, Mycroft at least had pretended to be civil, but Sherlock was an entirely different kettle of fish. Although not academically astounding, Vic provided a somewhat new way of life for the company starved Sherlock, finally, he felt needed.

When Sherlock had told his elder brother about his new accomplice Mycroft had smirked, convinced that little good could evolve from this unfortunate union. He was wrong. Over the coming months Sherlock's personality began to evolve, he once again showed signs of the caring person he used to be, before his mother's death, before he and Mycroft fell apart. The elder Holmes had to admit that it was rather refreshing to see this change in his brother's demeanour.

Vic enjoyed Sherlock's company, a loner by nature himself, he didn't often find someone that he could easily converse with, he had to admit that, although strange at times Sherlock Holmes was an interesting challenge, a Rubik's cube of contradictions, which Vic had begun to unravel.

They even started to visit each other out of school hours, gone were the nights when Mycroft would arrive home to the sorrowful Violin, replaced by chatter, incandescent and otherworldly, echoing down the desolate hallway. He wouldn't admit it openly, but Mycroft Holmes was jealous, jealous of this boy who could inspire such happiness in Sherlock where he himself had failed, it wasn't fair, what had he ever done to receive such punishment?

Over the year Vic and Sherlock became close friends, thick as thieves people in the corridors stopped interrogating the duo and simply glided past without a word. It was blissful; for once Sherlock wasn't forced to worry about the next threat or anyone's intention of actually carrying it out. The fast friends found solace in each others complications and discovered that a heart need not be crushed insincerely. Vic was everything that the isolated Sherlock needed in a friend, loyal, happy, and interesting; with the other boy by his side there was little that could upset his happy balance. Even Mycroft's doubts began to dissipate when he saw the joy on the two boys faces as they completed their latest experiment or read the latest mystery novel.

Sherlock was experiencing the best phase of his life so far, and despite their differences, the two Holmes brother's relationship was beginning to self repair. They no longer regarded each other as enemies, hostile glances were replaced with tight smiles and deductions were changed into small jests. They would never recover their full innocent, untainted relationship but for the sake of each other they clung onto the once strong remnants.

Vic was not entirely clear on the brother's way of life; he simply did not understand the well concealed resentment bubbling under their cool façade's. When he brought up the subject with Sherlock, an instant dismissal of the topic was all he received, although he noticed that over time they became less vehement, leaning more towards the sentimental shunning that all siblings seemed to go through.

Sherlock was happy, he was experiencing that not all emotions had to be shutdown that you needed a heart to survive, yes ice sculptures were beautiful, but without the cold to protect them, they began to thaw and crack. Mycroft was an ice sculpture and Sherlock was the sun, destined to be each others destruction, but also each others saviour. Sherlock realised that without Mycroft he would not be the person that he wanted to be, but he also knew that without a heart, there is no point in living; you are merely drifting through the proverbial life, simply existing.

_There is a photo in one of the Holmes family albums, tucked away at the back where hardly anyone would think to look. Apart from the early memories none of the brothers care to look back at the time period between then and now, they shield themselves from the memories they themselves created. This photo is a reminder to Sherlock of what he enjoyed in Vic's friendship, a piece of paper that proves he was human. In it two smiling boys of around 16 stand in front of a grand house, the sun shines brightly proving that it is around July, they are both soaked evidence of a water fight, the taller of the two smiles lopsidedly, his lanky arm swung around the shoulders of the auburn haired mid height one. Both are truly happy, content in their environment, if you look closely you can see the figure in the background, an air of dignity surrounding them, their face indistinguishable, carrying an umbrella despite the sweltering heat. It is not clear enough to see, but on the figures face is a rare smile, reserved only for his brother._


	5. Chapter 5

Much to the surprise of everyone within the school, Vic and Sherlock stayed fast friends throughout the next few months, each day Sherlock would wait behind the tree where they originally met and Vic would arrive with an almost goofy smile and an aloof expression. They were almost inseparable during the day apart from their chemistry class where they were forced to work with different partners, even then they communicated with almost uninterruptable glances.

Often other kids would waltz over to Vic in some of the other classes he had without his best friend: they demanded to know why he felt compelled to hang out with the strange child that was Sherlock. Always he answered with the same fact. "He's about the only interesting person here." When the others beckoned Vic over to sit at their lunch table, it gave Sherlock much joy to watch Vic simply wave their request away with a lazy smile and head over to himself with a bright and cheery expression on his face.

Always the same routine was employed, however each day conversation varied greatly, Vic was always astounded at the vast knowledge of crime that Sherlock had applied at such a young age. Sherlock for his part tried to teach Vic the way of his mind palace, but it was clear that Vic wasn't completely invested in storing all the data he accumulated, he lived in the moment, spurred on by Sherlock's urging he enjoyed trying new things and then relating them back to his friend. Once or twice Sherlock tried to explain the science of deduction, but Vic was much more interested in experiencing the fantastical portrayals and deductions when they spewed forth from his friend's mouth.

The most common deductions that came from Sherlock were those about the bullies within the school, those who seek to inflict pain to the people around them. Victor at first believed that this was some kind of closure or revenge for Sherlock's years of torment at these people's hands. However the boy explained that he simply wanted to understand their compulsion to hurt those around them, whatever their actions there had to be a cause.

No one was more surprised by Sherlock and Vic's continued friendship than Mycroft Holmes. He took this opportune meeting to be fate, as much as he liked Vic and approved of his choice to befriend Sherlock he often felt that at some point one of them was going to end up with a somewhat trampled heart. He watched the two boy's interactions with interest, always in the background: somewhat like surveillance.

Sherlock had not noticed his brother's almost constant supervision of his life but he had become aware that his brother was taking more interest in his somewhat uneventful life. This display of protectiveness somewhat irked him, but also served to inspire some pleasant feelings toward his stately sibling.

One day, soon after Mycroft had been installed in his new position within the British government, Vic came round to visit Sherlock at the Holmes manor. He arrived at the appointed time ringing the expensive doorbell and waiting for Sherlock to answer. Instead he was greeted by the somewhat intimidating elder version.

"Ah, Victor. Come to visit brother dear have we?" Mycroft asked his voice cold and clipped.

"Um…Yeah, I mean I suppose…" Victor felt immediately intimidated in this mans presence and began to understand Sherlock's renitence to talk of him fondly.

"Well, I hardly think you are here to visit me, are you?" Mycroft almost smirked at his own wit.

"Um…No, I am here to see Sherlock…"

Taking in Victor's shaky appearance and the fear darting in his eyes Mycroft knew he had him where he wanted him.

"Victor, do you mind if we have a little chat before you see my dear brother?" He flashed a rather predatory smile in the direction of the now petrified Victor.

"I-I-I suppose so…" Victor hated to think what this terrifying person wanted from him.

Stepping aside Mycroft let the younger boy pass the doorway, closing the large wooden door behind him. He watched Victor's stance shift minutely as he entered the house, once again overcome by the opulence of Sherlock's home.

"Now, Victor, I understand you and my brother have become what you people would call "friends" I just want to warn you, as a person concerned about his brothers future, that if you dare to harm my brother, physically or emotionally; that I will have little choice but to take matters into my own hands. And let me tell you Victor, that would not be a pleasant experience for myself, and even less so for yourself."

Watching the now pale boy's reaction was priceless to Mycroft's already inflated ego. He watched as all the boisterous rebellion within the young man slowly sunk out from his body with each word the politician said.

"I don't intend to hurt Sherlock, we're friends, we'll stick together no matter what…"

Victor trailed off, watching the displeased look grace the stately brother's features. "You had better hope that you live up to your own promises, because I assure you, if you do not, you will regret it."

Sensing that he was allowed to leave the grand room, Victor rushed through the doorway. "Sherlock, I'm here!" He bellowed in his loudest voice.

Sherlock appeared at the top of the grad staircase, it was clear he had been experimenting from his filthy shirt and the acid stains gracing his expensive shoes. "You're rather late, are you not?"

"Nah, was just talking to Mycroft, seriously how do you put up with him?"

"Mycroft? What the hell did that fat git want?"

Thinking it better to simply avoid the question Vic distracted the conversation away from intimidating earlier events. "So what have you been experimenting on now?"

Sensing the lie Sherlock narrowed his eyes but complied to the conversation change nonetheless, "Oh just testing iodine effects on the eyesight of small squid, want to see?"

"Sure!" Victor replied enthusiastically, all the time completely aware of the foreboding presence at the bottom of the staircase watching him, waiting for some kind of mistake.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched Victor's nervous reactions to his questions, choosing to ignore the obvious signs of distress he was showing. Sherlock was still in the process of honing his deductive skills, and such had not noticed the barely noticeable glint in his friends eyes. Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that Vic's sudden close down of his normally happy personality had something to do with the rather smug personage at the bottom of the stairs.

"Vic, give me just a second, I want to talk to Mycroft."

Victor turned, concerned about what Mycroft would tell Sherlock about their conversation not minutes earlier.

"Why?" Victor tried to employ his rather pathetic attempt at a hurt sounding voice to get Sherlock to follow him into Sherlock's tip of a room.

"None of your business!" Sherlock snapped, quickly becoming tired of Victor's attempts to evoke empathy towards him, and at the same time wondering why his friend was following this incessant line of questioning. With that last thought he sent a quick look of revulsion toward Vic and headed downstairs.

Mycroft Holmes watched the interaction between his younger brother and his "friend" consequently growing even more suspicious of Victors intentions upon Sherlock, and how much they would affect the fragile young man. Mycroft smirked, regarding his brother with a rather haughty expression as he almost barrelled down the stairs, approaching the politician with such haste he almost tripped over himself.

"What the hell have you been saying to MY friend?" The anger in Sherlock Holmes' eyes was palpable.

"Sherlock, there are things I needed to understand about your young comrade, we were simply having a rather pleasant conversation about his intentions in life." Mycroft smiled smugly, believing himself to have gained the upper hand in this childish battle of wills.

"Stay away from my friend, hell, it's not like you've ever let me make any other ones."

Sherlock's eyes betrayed the swirling rage of emotions bubbling under the surface of his cool demeanour, cold hatred for his elder brothers actions swirled amongst the other sad reflections showed there.

Mycroft Holmes simply stared at his younger brother as he once again walked up the staircase. His normally unbreakable persona cracking just a bit from Sherlock's rebuttal; feeling his eyes beginning to water he quickly turned away from the situation, cringing at the sound of Sherlock's happy tones. What had he ever done to cause such a rift between them, he only wanted to protect his younger brother.

Vic waited for Sherlock in his room, allowing his eyes to wander to the various stages of experiments scattered around the place. Various bodies of animals lay about, some already entering the last stages of decomposition. To Vic the smell was appalling, but when his friend entered there was no sign in his impassive eyes that he could even sense the putrid stench.

"Right, I'll explain a bit about the rest of the squid shall I?"

"Sure." Vic answered somewhat noncommittally, still unsure of exactly what Mycroft had told Sherlock, he knew he shouldn't have been worried, but the seeds of terror had been sown.

Sherlock for his part observed his rather uninterested friend, knowing that he should have little doubt about Victor's plans for their friendship. But there was always that little bit of wavering, a niggling annoyance in the back of his great expanse of a mind, that Victor wasn't all that he chalked up to be, after all, who wants to befriend a freak.

Whilst inside the deductions ran rapid-fire within Sherlock's young brain, on the outside, he merely smiled: a nervous smile, defensive and on edge. For his part, Vic smiled back: the smile of a predator, one fit for a wolf. Sherlock turned his back, beginning to explain how iodine will affect the cornea of the squids. Victor felt all the terror dissolve from his body, aware now that the politician had had very little impact upon his younger sibling. Well, what did he expect, their relationship was in tatters at the best of times, if anything Sherlock would probably rebel even more against Mycroft's influence.

Sherlock continued to prattle on about the various stages of eye alteration occurring in the tiny animals before, totally unaware of his contemplating friend behind him, a sketchy smirk etched upon his face.

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk in his father's old office, watching out the window the birds making a nest in the closest tree. He couldn't help feeling that Victor was up to no good, nothing was going to convince him that the boy had Sherlock's best interests at heart, he was out for something, and Mycroft just had to figure out exactly how bad this was going to affect his brother. For the sake of Victor he hoped that he would stand good with his earlier promise of faithfulness; because if he ever harmed Sherlock he would most definitely have himself to deal with, Mycroft had been told by some people that he had an acidic personality, but none of those goldfish really understood how corrosive that acidic nature could be when protecting something he cared for.

_At the Diogenes club there sits a man who controls almost the whole of Britain. He will tell you that he only maintains a minor position within the government; his younger brother will boast scornfully that he IS the British Government. The man can influence most of anything, his powers allowing him to gain full control of his various enemies, disposing of various people that are a threat to the country. But this man does not like legwork, he is rather more inclined to work things through in his immense brain, sorting all the information he finds into files and folders. There is only one exception to this lack of movement, one instance in which Ice Man turned his own immense power against a singular entity, once in which he dealt with an enemy himself. A person who went against his own express instructions, someone; who broke their own promise._


	7. Chapter 7

After Victor left the Holmes household, Sherlock was left feeling more than a little bit betrayed by his elder brother. What gave him the right to order his friends around and create loneliness in the already isolated life he led? Still, there was something definitely off with Victor, he was being secretive, moody and evasive. Sherlock had worked out that he was a liar long ago, the tell lines round his eyes were enough to inform him of that. Mentally he went to Vic's room in his mind palace, sorting through all the information he held on the boy.

_Aged 17_

_Popular with girls and peers due to athletic status_

_One cat, one dog. Yorkshire terrier and a Persian_

_Liar- habitual and maintained_

_Sportsman_

_Strong (both in mind and muscle power)_

_Academically stable although nothing astounding_

_Helpful – however less so in the last few weeks_

_Always long sleeves and collars – possibly to hide self harm or abuse._

_Hardly ever mentions father except in relation to medicines and treatment_

_Talks of father buying in extra stocks of...oh._

That was it, what was so off about Victor, his father, the upstanding surgeon, was smuggling drugs. Now all that remained was to discover where he was getting his supply from and cut it off, then he would have his friend back for good.

Mycroft watched as his younger brother tore about the house looking for books on opiates and illicit substances, he couldn't say that he wasn't worried, but he trusted Sherlock enough not to get into something that would be dangerous or life threatening. Who was he kidding; he didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. Throughout the day he watched as Sherlock made ready to undertake his "case." Mycroft had assumed this had something to do with Victor, although he couldn't pin point what.

Sherlock was ready, armed with a torch and one of his brothers not so carefully hidden knives, everyone knew it was in his umbrella, he set out toward Victors modest house, tiny and insignificant compared to Holmes manor it would have been easy to miss had it not been for Vic's distinctive sky blue bike leaning against the gate. Sherlock had calculated exactly when Victor would leave to meet his dealer, observing his conversations at school and his various other tells and habits. Idly Sherlock picked at the skin of his fingers, he had mixed feelings about his participation in this scheme, on one hand he would be saving his friend from a life of drug addled abuse, on the other he was entering the underbelly of London's drug trade, a dangerous place to be.

Suddenly there was movement at one of the darkened windows of the house, a rustling of the curtains and a furtive dash of the shutters. Sherlock observed as someone stealthily made there way downstairs. There was silence for a moment whilst whomever it was collected themselves to sneak out of the house unnoticed. A figure appeared at the door, crossing over toward the bike. It was time to catch a drug dealer.

Mycroft was unconcerned when he heard Sherlock leaving the house, it was not uncommon for his younger sibling to go for walks late at night, it was a well known fact that Sherlock hardly ever slept. Chalking it up to his brother going for a walk round Hyde Park Mycroft sat down at his desk, ready to immerse himself in some more important documents.

Sherlock quickly took after the boy, making sure to stay out of his sightline; it wouldn't do to get caught by an already volatile Victor, tapping into his phone he dialled the police to report an incident, after all, there was a lot at stake. It was clear that his father was using Vic as a drug runner, sending him on errands to get his supply. When Sherlock realised this he felt a pang of what many would call sympathy, after all, his father hadn't exactly been a bed of roses with his drinking and such.

Suddenly Victor stopped turning off onto a rather desolate looking street, the wind whistled against the broken chimney pots and half, hinge hung doors. Victor turned into the drive of a particularly derelict looking property and proceeded to abandon his bike at the door. Now was his chance, shouting Sherlock emerged from behind a bush, hoping to catch him before the door opened, with a wide eyed stare Victor gaped at Sherlock, why was he here? How had he found out?

Sherlock reached the doorway just as Victor began to speak, they were both cut off by a gruff, burly man who opened the door for them.

"Now, now kiddies, come on in, you'll catch your death out there!"

The man smiled, his golden fillings glinting in the pale moonlight, reflecting against the cold onyx of his eyes. Victor looked at Sherlock, how could he have been so stupid, surely he knew what he was dealing with here?

Sherlock gulped back his sudden nausea, this was far worse than expected, pale shadows littered the hallways as he stepped over their groaning appendages and listened to their weary cries, not one dealer, not one person, a den, a vile lions den of deceit and decrepit wasted lives. And both he and Vic were the prey. Quickly scanning the room that they had been led into, Sherlock felt a sort of dread wash over him: there was no escape, all windows were closed and bolted and the door was effectively blocked by junkies. For once in his short life Sherlock felt scared, he couldn't have cared less about his own safety but having Vic standing next to him, visibly sweating and shaking was enough to chill his very soul. Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage, it achieved nothing but hurt and pain, Sherlock made a vow never to let anyone close to him again, lest they be harmed in any way. One thing that Sherlock was not was a coward. He would stand by Victor, even if it cost him is life.


End file.
